The Grass so little has to do – A Sphere of simple Green – With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain – And stir all day to pretty Tunes The Breezes fetch along – And hold the Sunshine in its lap And bow to everything –

And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls – And make itself so fine A Duchess were too common For such a noticing –

And even when it dies – to pass In Odors so divine – Like Lowly spices, lain to sleep – Or Spikenards, perishing –

And then, in Sovereign Barns to dwell – And dream the Days away, The Grass so little has to do I wish I were a Hay –